


You've Ruined Peaches For Me

by sequence_fairy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Misunderstandings, Ryan is bad at feelings but it's okay, because Steven is not used to having them about Ryan, did i send steven to the niagara peninsula to eat peaches, for a fic built entirely around the premise that eating peaches is metaphor for something else?, maybe I did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 09:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22847953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: Steven eats the bushel of peaches one by one. Sometimes he has one first thing, with the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, juice dripping down his wrists as he leans over the sink. Sometimes he comes home from visiting a local landmark and needs a snack. One time he takes one in his bag when he drives out to the edge of Lake Ontario and sits on a rock, listening to the waves and watching a sailboat tack in a lazy loop. On another morning, he stands again at the kitchen sink, peach cradled in his palms. He brings it to his face, inhaling the soft scent. It’s perfectly ripe.Or: A misunderstanding leads to a revelation.
Relationships: Ryan Bergara/Steven Lim
Comments: 18
Kudos: 53





	You've Ruined Peaches For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, a bitch just wants to not work on any of the things she is supposed to be working on so she writes rarepair fic. Thanks ever so to the RareBuzzShips discord for everyone's encouragement. <3
> 
> Title borrowed from [Trista Mateer](https://sequencefairy.tumblr.com/post/169864365157/youve-ruined-peaches-for-me-i-cant-eat-one).

It’s peach season. One of Steven’s favourite times of the year. He’s been spoiled by the availability of produce in LA, spoiled by all the choices and the never-ending stream of ripe fruits and vegetables in or out of season. There remains, though, nothing quite like a peach, plucked from the tree at the peak of ripeness, still warm from the sun in the orchard. 

He’d stopped at the first roadside stand on the way out from the airport. It was nearing evening, the sun hanging low over the trees in rows behind the stand. All he could smell as he approached was the soft fragrance of them. The air was full of the gentle hum of insects and the far off sound of the bird deterrents. Steven had bought a bushel, carefully selecting each peach, and leaving cash in the jar on the shelf next to the empty bags.

The rental house he’s staying in for the next three weeks is nestled on the outskirts of one of a dozen small towns dotted across the entirety of rural Ontario wine country. From the upstairs windows, he can just make out the edge of the lake, and from all the remaining windows, he’s surrounded by rows and rows of vines. They’re lush, grapes starting to get full and heavy, and on his first night, Steven sits on the back porch, watching the sun finish sinking and listening to the night noises rise in the still air.

He goes to bed early, windows thrown open and curtains flung wide, while the moon rises and its light creeps across the bare wood flooring. 

The next morning, Steven wakes up to the sun pouring in. The late summer air is already heating up. It’s going to be heavy-hot today, Steven can tell. The cicada song in the trees is loud. He shuts the bedroom windows tight before heading down to the ground floor. It’s a little strange not to be rushing out the door, to not have his phone in his hand and his laptop on his knees. Steven stands in the middle of the small kitchen, bare feet pressed against the slate flooring, and lifts his hands to his hips. 

He’s here to relax. He’s here to not work, to go off the grid for a little while and go to bed early and get up late and quietly putter around this small farmhouse and the surrounding countryside. Maybe he’ll visit a couple of wineries, try out some of the local flavour, and put his feet in the lake if it’s not too chilly. He’s got nothing but time. It’s a strange but welcome feeling. 

Steven stretches his arms over his head and gets to work on breakfast. 

=== 

After a week, Steven is starting to really appreciate the constant rhythm of the bird cannons and the quiet hush of the wind through the grapevines. He’s taken to spending his mornings sitting on the back porch, cup of coffee at his elbow, pen in one hand and journal on his knee. The words he writes are settling too, into something more peaceful, something easier, something that reflects the slow healing of wounds left earlier this year.

Life moves at a different pace here. The farms and vineyards are busy in the early morning, and the tourists pile in during the early afternoon hours. Steven avoids the hot spots, and finds quiet coffee shops to visit with locally made preserves and homemade scones. He visits one of the larger wineries, and leaves with a bottle of late harvest Vidal and a recommendation for dinner at an old fire hall turned pizzeria.

He eats the bushel of peaches one by one. Sometimes he has one first thing, with the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window, juice dripping down his wrists as he leans over the sink. Sometimes he comes home from visiting a local landmark and needs a snack. One time he takes one in his bag when he drives out to the edge of Lake Ontario and sits on a rock, listening to the waves and watching a sailboat tack in a lazy loop. On another morning, he stands again at the kitchen sink, peach cradled in his palms. He brings it to his face, inhaling the soft scent. It’s perfectly ripe.

He doesn’t miss the bustle of the city as much as he thought he might. He doesn’t miss the never-ending lights and the easy delivery food and the convenience. He doesn’t notice how his phone screen doesn’t light up, he doesn’t check Instagram or Twitter to see what he might be missing out on. He takes pictures of the sky and the grapevines and the lake and does not send a single one to anyone. He buys extremely local produce, cooks for himself and finishes yet another book on his kindle. 

The second week begins with a rolling thunderstorm in the early morning hours. Lightning flashes across the sky, and the rain comes down in curtains. Thunder echoes off the cliffs. Steven wakes up, momentarily startled by the noise, but soon he’s standing next to the sliding door, watching the trees lean in the wind. 

The storm moves off, leaving a gentle, dousing rain in its wake and Steven goes back to bed, but not before opening the windows to let the fresh scent of the cleared air in. It feels like the good kind of change.

===

Ryan shows up during the middle of that week.

Steven comes home from an impromptu visit to the chocolate factory and then a long, meandering drive back to find another car in the driveway of the house. Ryan’s sitting on the front steps, elbows on his knees and hands hanging down between. Steven’s heart jolts. Ryan looks up at the sound of the car pulling in. 

He looks tired. There’re bags under his eyes, and a hunch to his shoulders that Steven remembers seeing when he’d left LA. Steven parks the car and gets out, turning the keys around one finger. Ryan doesn’t say anything, but he stands at Steven’s approach, and they both look at each other for a long moment. 

Steven drops their shared gaze first, pulling bags out of the backseat and then stepping around Ryan to unlock the door. 

He leaves it open behind him and Ryan follows him in. Once the door shuts behind him, Steven hears Ryan deflate. He slides out of his sandals and walks into the kitchen. He’s got groceries to put away. Ryan follows in his wake and sits down at the table. 

Once Steven has no groceries left to put away, he leans against the counter, back to the window and looks at Ryan. 

Ryan looks up. Whatever he sees on Steven’s face makes him wince and look away. 

Steven sighs. “Ryan,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says to the tabletop. He scrubs a hand through his hair and then looks up at Steven again. 

“Apology accepted,” Steven says, and then, “You didn’t have to come all the way here though, we could have talked when I got back.” 

“I didn’t want to leave it like that,” Ryan says. “I just–I had to make sure you knew.” 

There’s an earnestness to Ryan’s voice that makes a feeling shiver down Steven’s spine. “Make sure I knew what?” 

“You–Steve, you’re not just, you know, some guy I went into business with, okay?” 

“Of course,” Steven says, “we’re friends? I know.” 

“No,” Ryan says, and then he’s standing, walking around the kitchen table, and bracketing Steven in against the counter. Steven looks down at Ryan looking up at him. The golden light of the late afternoon is kind to Ryan in a way that makes him nearly hard to look at. He’s so close. 

“Ry–?”

Ryan steps back, and shakes out his hands. “You’re important to me, you know?” Ryan says. 

He moves to Steven’s left and presses his hands down against the edge of the countertop. There’s barely a breath of space between Ryan’s hand and Steven’s own. Steven can’t seem to take his eyes off that sliver of distance. Ryan’s shoulders are tense, hunched up around his ears. Steven wants to reach out and smooth a hand down the line of his spine, and watch the tension shiver out of Ryan’s bones.

Steven drags his eyes up to Ryan’s face. Ryan is staring out the window. Steven turns to follow his gaze. 

“This is a really pretty spot,” Ryan says. 

“It is,” Steven agrees. Ryan’s mood has shifted again. 

“Have you found the perfect spot to eat dinner yet?” Ryan asks, pushing himself off the counter. 

“I’ve mostly been cooking for myself actually,” Steven says, “but I did find a pizzeria in an old fire hall that was pretty good.” 

“I could go for pizza.” Ryan picks at the tabletop with one finger. 

“Ryan,” Steven says, “what are you doing here?” Steven can be patient, but he’s supposed to be on vacation and Ryan, while a welcome surprise, was not in the plan.

“Can we talk while we eat?” Ryan asks. 

“Yeah,” Steven says, after a moment. “Alright, I’ve got enough for two.” 

“What?” 

“I just bought groceries, we’re gonna eat here. I’ve got enough for two. You can help,” Steven says. 

“I can?” Ryan asks. He sounds pleased to have been asked.

“Of course,” Steven says.

Later, once Ryan’s gone out to his car to bring in his bag (“I wasn’t sure you’d want me to stay.” “Why wouldn’t I want you to stay?”), they plug in Ryan’s phone and let it fill the small kitchen with some dinner party playlist curated by Ryan’s spotify account and Steven shows Ryan how to devein and peel shrimp. 

Not too much later than that, Steven shoos Ryan out to the back patio with the utensils and glasses of a locally-made sparkling cider. Inside the kitchen, alone for the moment, Steven carefully portions the shrimp onto the bed of colourful slaw and drizzles the whole thing with a shot of lemon juice for brightness. Before picking up the plates, Steven looks out through the patio door. 

Ryan is sitting in one of the chairs, glass in hand, head tipped back, watching something in the sky. He’s lit the candle in the centre of the table. For a moment, Steven lets himself look, lets himself want, lets himself imagine. It’s no good to think about this now, not when he knows what Ryan would say, knows what Ryan has already said.

Steven picks up the plates and walks to the door. Ryan notices and is on his feet immediately to slide it open. He takes his plate from Steven’s hand. 

“Wow,” he says, looking down, “this looks so good!” 

“Hope it tastes as good as it looks,” Steven jokes. 

Ryan looks at him side-long for a brief second before settling back into his previously claimed chair. He picks up his fork and digs in. Steven sits in the other chair. 

Once their plates are cleared, Ryan sets down his glass decisively against the tabletop. The  _ ching _ of glass against stone brings Steven back from his mindless contemplation of the rolling hills. He looks over at Ryan. 

Steven was sure earlier that golden hour was what Ryan was made for, but now, in the slowly falling dusk, he thinks he might’ve been wrong. 

“Thanks for dinner,” Ryan says. 

“Thanks for helping,” Steven answers, picking up his glass. The cider is only barely alcoholic, but Steven’s never been a drinker. He takes a drink, letting the cider sit on his tongue, bubbles popping against the back of his nose. Ryan watches, keen-eyed. There’s something heavy in Ryan’s gaze, something that feels almost like a touch. The prickle of a flush crawls up the back of Steven’s neck. 

“Dessert?” Steven asks, suddenly desperate to cut the tension. 

Ryan blinks. “Uh,” he says, “sure. You want a hand?” 

“No, it’s fine,” Steven says. He pushes himself to his feet and gathers their plates and empty glasses. 

Despite Steven saying he didn’t need a hand, Ryan still follows him back inside. Steven casts about for a moment, wondering what he has to serve for dessert. There’s two peaches left from his first bushel, a little bruised now but they’ll be fine if he peels and slices them. He grabs one, then the other and places them next to the cutting board on the counter. Ryan leans against the fridge, watching, as Steven peels first one, then the other. He splits them in half and twists, digging out the pit and then slices each half into wedges. 

Ryan’s hand darts in just as Steven is finishing the last couple of slices, to snag a piece. 

“Hey!” Steven admonishes, “you wanna lose a finger?” 

Ryan sucks peach juice off his fingers before answering. Steven can’t take his eyes away from the sight of Ryan’s fingers in his own mouth, and the way Ryan’s eyelashes flutter. “Damn,” Ryan says, “those’re good.” 

“I got them from the stand down the road,” Steven says, sweeping the slices into a bowl that he then hands to Ryan. Ryan looks down at the bowl and then picks out a slice and hands it to Steven. 

Steven’s breath catches. What is Ryan’s game here? Steven reaches for the peach with fingers he hopes aren’t visibly shaking. Their hands brush as Steven accepts Ryan’s offering. When Steven takes the first bite, he can’t help the soft noise of enjoyment. It’s a burst of tangy-sweetness across Steven’s tongue, and he swallows.

Ryan’s lips are parted when Steven looks back at him, and Steven watches his tongue dart out, wetting them, before Ryan takes a breath. “I’ll take these outside?” Ryan’s voice is strained.

“Sure,” Steven says. Something molten turns over at the base of Steven’s spine. Ryan doesn’t move. Steven waits. The fridge kicks on in the quiet, startling them both. It seems to have been the push Ryan was waiting for. 

Ryan sets the bowl down on the counter and steps very deliberately into Steven’s space. “I think you misunderstood,” he says, and reaches up. His fingers thread into Steven’s hair, and then slide down to curl around his jaw. 

“Misunderstood?” Steven asks, barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and then he pushes up, catching Steven’s mouth with his own. The kiss blooms between them. It’s gentle until Ryan nips at Steven’s bottom lip, swiping along after it with his tongue. Steven’s hands come up, one to thread into Ryan’s hair, the other to grasp at Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan hums into the kiss, tilting his head to slide their mouths together more fully. 

When Ryan pulls away finally, he’s looking up at Steven like the sun has come out behind him. Steven doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he leans in and kisses Ryan again, pulling him closer with the hand on his shoulder. They’re toe to toe, chest to chest, and Steven can feel the hitch in Ryan’s breathing as the kiss heats. 

This time, Steven is the one to pull away. His head’s swimming. He looks down at Ryan. 

Ryan drops back onto flat feet. “You taste like peaches,” he says, looking up at Steven. 

“I do?” 

“Yeah,” Ryan answers. He reaches for another slice. “I like it.”

This time, Ryan doesn’t hand Steven the slice to take, he lifts it to Steven’s mouth. Ryan feeds him the peach slice, and his fingers brush against Steven’s lips as he does. The feeling makes Steven wobble. Ryan’s eyes darken. The thrill of it zings through Steven. 

Ryan leans up again, and Steven meets him in the middle. As they kiss, they turn so that Steven’s back is to the counter. Ryan brackets Steven in, both of them pressed together. The edge of the countertop digs into Steven’s lower back, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Ryan’s mouth is hot and wet and his hands are everywhere. 

When they come up for air this time, Ryan’s breathing hard and a flush rides high on his cheekbones. Steven’s sure he has one of his own to match. 

“Take me to bed,” Ryan suggests. 

Steven groans, unable to stop the helpless stutter forward of his hips, and drops his head down onto Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan’s grip on Steven’s hip tightens. In the wake of the molten want at the way their bodies brush together, anxious nerves writhe in Steven’s stomach. He lifts his head, catching Ryan’s gaze. “I– Ryan–” 

Ryan’s hand comes up to trace the line of Steven’s jaw. “We don’t have to do anything,” he says, careful, “I just think it might be more comfortable if we were lying down.” 

Steven hesitates. He wants, he does, and Ryan wants too, obviously, but it’s so much, all of a sudden. He feels like he’s had way more than the one cider, feels like he did the last time he got really properly wasted, feels weak at the knees at the idea of Ryan wanting to go to bed with him, feels achy with worry that if he doesn’t go now, he’ll never get the chance. 

Ryan seems to sense Steven’s turmoil and steps back, giving Steven some space. “I don’t want to push,” Ryan says, “I know this is–” 

“I want to,” Steven says, “I want to, so much. You have no idea. I just–” Steven shrugs. “I’ve never–I’m not–” 

“Hey,” Ryan interrupts, “it’s okay. Whatever you want, I’m easy.” 

“Can we maybe just take a minute?” 

“Absolutely,” Ryan moves away entirely, and reaches for the bowl of peaches once more. He pops a slice into his mouth. “You have got to get more of these.” 

“I’ll take you in the morning,” Steven says, reaching for his own slice. Their fingers brush again in the bowl and their eyes meet. Ryan’s smile is a slow bloom, and Steven can’t stop the way his own mouth curves up in response.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come and chat with me about my fic on [tumblr](http://sequencefairy.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic).


End file.
